


Life Is Unkind

by Tame_my_wild_heart



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 16:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19299055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tame_my_wild_heart/pseuds/Tame_my_wild_heart
Summary: Hastings is pushed toward the unthinkable.Please excuse my manic-depressive mind venting my angst. This is hideously gratuitous and self-indulgent. (And has little regard for established canon, though unbounded admiration for Dame Agatha)





	Life Is Unkind

The icy wind was howling up a storm and a few drops of rain threatened a downpour. It was very late by the time I reached the familiar steps of Whitehaven Mansions. For days now, coming home had been all I wanted, but just as I got off the train, I lost my nerve. Instead of hailing a cab, I had blindly wandered the streets, not caring where I went, and with no regard for the dropping temperature. I seemed to be numb to everything. Somehow my feet (or possibly my sub-conscious) managed to take me where I needed to go. But what if this wasn’t my home anymore? When I married Caroline, Poirot had shown nothing but joy for us, but I had never shaken the feeling that I had abandoned him. Our farewell all those months ago had felt so final. Turning away, I made it a few yards before the heavens opened. I turned my collar up against the elements and proceeded a few paces before indecision forced me to stop. I looked back over my shoulder. The familiar façade of the block was all in darkness. As my eyes fixed on the sixth floor, I was flooded with memories. I longed to see my friends, yet my own pride was too big a wall to climb. A light flicked on in 6A and I quickly ducked back round the corner of a building. 

Again my indecision wavered. I had initially intended to knock on the door as if no time had passed. But as the hour had grown steadily later, I had decided that knocking on Poirot’s door at three a.m. would not endear me to his affections. I watched him approach the window, stare out, turn away and repeat. He seemed to be pacing. Something was clearly bothering him. I felt my body shiver from the cold. I ached from the tension running through it. Fumbling for a cigarette I realised how cold my hands were. I flexed my fingers to try and get the circulation going and in doing so I lost my grip on both the cigarette and my lighter. Bending to retrieve the lighter, I scrabbled around in the dark, forcing my fingers to work. 

Realising that it was too late to check into a hotel and that hypothermia was becoming a very real possibility, my mind made itself up. Not that I was particularly bothered by the thought of dying of exposure, but it would grieve Poirot to find me dead on his doorstep. I forced my exhausted body to cross the street. The pavement was becoming icy and I fell more than once. Dragging myself up the few steps I half-fell through the doors. The doorman, Mr. Dicker, was seated at his post and looked at me suspiciously. Content to let him think I was drunk, I staggered up the stairs leaning heavily on the handrail. By now I was feeling dizzy, cold and entirely wretched and in my stupor I stopped on the fourth floor. As I raised my hand to knock, the world faded to grey and I collapsed to the floor.

Fortunately the couple who lived in 4A were early risers. She happened to be in her hallway when she heard a suspicious noise outside. Opening her door just a few inches, she had found me in a heap on the floor. After the initial shock, she had recognised me and made several attempts to rouse me. Being unsuccessful, she and her husband had got me up the two flights of stairs and hammered on the door. I first became aware that I wasn’t cold any more. I forced my eyes open and quickly shut them again, loudly protesting against the brightness of the room. The overhead light went out and was quickly replaced by a couple of lamps. Once my eyes adjusted, I found that I was lying on the sofa, under a pile of blankets. The fire was crackling in the grate and Poirot was holding out a steaming cup of tea. I reached for it, trying to curl my stiff fingers round the porcelain. Seeing that I was still shaking, his hands surrounded mine in an instant, steadying my grip and preventing me from pulling away. Once he was satisfied I wasn’t going to scald myself he sat back in his armchair. I could feel his piercing gaze on me and I stared into my cup, finding myself wholly unable to meet his eyes. And still he waited. I could sense that my silence was making him uneasy. I heard him push his chair closer to me and I finally looked up at him. His eyes were a picture of worry and compassion, and I took the cigarette he offered me, allowing him to light it for me. Still not trusting myself to speak, I watched the curls of smoke rising from the glowing tip. Finally, the silence became unbearably loud, and I dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. 

Once safe inside, I leant back against the door and slid down it to the floor. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, I slowly got control of the panic building inside me. Suddenly, Poirot was on the other side of the door. Compassion had clearly given way to outright fear. “Hastings? Hastings, what is wrong?”  
I hastily splashed some water on my face, in an attempt to make myself feel more human. “Nothing, I’m fine. Be out in a moment.” I hoped that I sounded convincing. When I opened the door, I found that I hadn’t.  
“Hastings, you are not fine. Something is wrong, is it Madame Hastings?”  
My head jerked at the mention of my wife. “No, she’s fine, well, she’s…she’s okay.” I was floundering, and my friend knew it.  
“She wrote to me a letter.” I looked up, alarmed. Poirot passed it to me and as our hands touched, I reacted as though I had been burned. I knew that he could not fail to see my reaction. Shame reddened my face and I bolted for my bedroom. I wedged a chair under the handle and buried myself under the covers. I ignored Poirot’s plea for entry, I ignored the rattle of the door, I ignored the concern in his voice. I waited for him to give up. Finally I fell asleep.

I did not sleep well, my dreams turning to nightmares. I jerked awake, momentarily disoriented. Then I remembered. Caroline had written to Poirot. I needed to know what she had told him. Throwing off the bedclothes, I opened the door as quietly as I could. The flat appeared to be empty. I crept out into the living room. A single letter lay in the very centre of his desk. One glance was enough to recognise my wife’s handwriting. I slid into Poirot’s chair and removed the letter from the envelope. There were several pages and as I scanned them, the feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach grew stronger. I had assumed her letter would not contain the truth, not the whole truth at least. I was proved correct. The accusations she levelled at me were truly awful. So Poirot knew the truth. What must he think of me? He had always thought me so loyal, for him to believe I had abandoned my wife, he would be so ashamed of me. And he would be right to be so. I had turned my back on her, just when she needed me. I was thoroughly appalled by my own behaviour. 

Dropping the letter back on the desk, I pulled on my shoes and left the flat. I had no clear intention or plan in mind. It had been early morning when I set out, yet I wandered aimlessly for hours. I sat in Hyde Park as the sun set and the rain fell, and listened to the gentle strains of Chopin and Bach as they drifted out of the Royal Albert Hall. Caroline and I had danced to Chopin at our wedding. I couldn’t understand how we had gone from heaven to hell in so short a time. On Waterloo Bridge, I leaned over the parapet and stared down at the inky blackness far below. I felt that a solution was presenting itself. As the rain fell, so did I.

The first thing I noticed was the feeling of being covered in cool crisp linen. The smell of disinfectant was all too familiar. Turning my head to the left, I saw the unmistakable figure of Hercule Poirot. He was standing with his back to me, looking out of the window. The rustling of starched bed linen had him at my side in an instant. I was familiar with most of his expressions. I had seen him amused, I had seen him excited, I had seen him annoyed, I had seen him worried. I had even, on occasion, seen him angry. But this was new. This I had never seen. His face was pale, his eyes anxious. He was terrified. I needed to sit up, but the movement made me dizzy. Fighting nausea, I lay back. “What am I doing here?” I whispered. Speaking any louder made my head hurt. “What happened?” Gently, he assisted me to sit up, plumping the pillows behind me.  
“You were pulled out of the river near Waterloo Bridge.” He lowered his voice. “A boatman said that you jumped. Tell to me it is not true.” He made no attempt to disguise the fear in his voice. 

I suddenly found my hands fascinating. It was unfortunate that my most trusted friend happened to be the cleverest man in England. I instinctively flinched at his hand on my arm. I saw the horror on his face. “My friend, who has done this to you? What has brought you to this?” I had found it the easiest thing in the world to pretend nothing was wrong, but to have someone ask me directly was quite another thing. Being dishonest is not in my nature, lying by omission had become easier. But now I just felt tired. Tired of the pain, the deception, of putting on a mask every day. I couldn’t do it any more. I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Caroline.” Even as I said it, I couldn’t believe it. “I read the letter. She told you why I left.”  
“To lose a child is a terrible thing. It disobeys nature.”  
“It is. We couldn’t even bury her, the church don’t do funerals for stillbirths. It’s been very hard for her.”  
“And for you, mon ami. It was your child also.”  
“I know she told you that I left her.” Poirot nodded. Now that I had started I wasn’t sure I knew how to stop talking. “I know I shouldn’t have, it was a despicable thing to do. The thing is, I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know how to help her. She’s so angry all the time, not that I blame her for that. Some days she won’t talk at all, and I can’t get her to leave the house. I just don’t know what to do, I tried being strong for her, but she wouldn’t let me touch her. I couldn’t take any more.”  
“Why did you leave her? It is unlike you to abandon someone for whom you care.”  
“A few months ago, I thought she was doing better. She was smiling, laughing. She wanted to do things together again. I suggested trying for another baby, and she just completely lost it. I can’t repeat what she said to me. That’s when I found out she was drinking. Everything she does, it’s just the drink talking, she doesn’t mean it.” I was filled with horror and desperately struggled to my feet. “What have I done? How could I just leave like that? She’s grieving, of course she’s angry. She probably thinks I blame her. God knows she’s been blaming herself.” 

I started pulling on my clothes, when I realised that Poirot was staring at my back. I froze, not daring to breathe.  
“Hastings, you did not get those bruises falling into the river. How did you come by them?” His voice had the air of someone who already knew the answer to the question, but was afraid of having the truth confirmed. I dropped my face into my hands. I couldn’t summon either the will or the wit to come up with an alternative. “It was Madame Hastings, oui?” I wasn't sure whether he was merely stating the fact, or if he was asking a question desperately hoping I would give him a different answer. He was at my side, encouraging me to sit. I stared at the floor, afraid of what I would see if I looked at my old friend. I still could not bring myself to say it. Eventually I nodded. “She doesn’t mean to. It’s the drink. She can’t help it.” Poirot put his hands on my shoulders and forced me to look at him. “Madame Hastings gets drunk and beats you? She blames you for the death of your child?” Totally unable to lie to him, I nodded.  
“Mon Dieu.” He sprang to his feet and paced the room. “This is intolerable! To treat my friend so abominably, as to drive him to a crime, to do away with himself, I say non! A thousand times, non!” He continued in this vein, in a mixture of English and French for several minutes. Most of it washed over me, but I realised that I had indeed committed a crime. Suicide was illegal. I could be prosecuted, tried and imprisoned. I would have to stand in court and tell them why. The very idea terrified the life out of me. Before I knew it I was running. I heard Poirot shout after me, but I didn’t stop. I could only see one way out of this. 

I stepped right up to the edge of the roof. Just one more step until nothing. On the ground below a crowd was beginning to grow. The pointing and shouting turned to gasps as I swayed forward. At the very last second, I felt myself being yanked backwards. I was pitched to the ground and instantly hauled back to my feet. It was Japp, and he was apoplectic with rage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Captain? You really think this is the solution?”  
I glared at him. “I think it’s preferable to prison, yes.”  
“And what about Mr. Poirot, and Miss Lemon? I never thought you could be selfish enough to leave them like this. Do you really have so little regard for their feelings that you want this to be how they remember you? Do you really want to make me have to scrape you off the pavement?” I doubted that this was normal procedure when dealing with suicide, but nevertheless, his fury seemed to have the desired effect. Something started shifting inside my head. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to die anymore, but I was still afraid of their reputations being tainted by association with me.  
“Of course not. Nor would I have them visit me in prison. And it’s definitely preferable to standing in the dock telling the world what a inadequate husband and a coward I am.” I noticed that Japp still had a tight grip on me, and he was slowly walking me back to safety. Only when we were back inside did he relax a bit. He didn’t let go of me until he had returned me to Poirot’s watchful care. I allowed them to push me back into bed. I was too tired to argue. Turning to face the wall, I faded in and out of sleep, picking up fragments of their conversation and piecing it together as best I could.  
“…up to fourteen years…”  
“Has he not been punished enough, Chief Inspector? His child, the future he dreamed of, is gone.”  
“I have to do my duty…can’t do favours”  
“Would it truly be in the public interest?”  
“Perhaps not. If I could show a statement to the CPS. It’s down to them whether there’s a case.”  
My heart sank. I would have to tell him. Tell him everything. I rolled back to face them. “Okay. Let’s get it over, before I change my mind.” I sat up, finally ready to unburden my soul. Fortunately, Japp anticipated my discomfort and suggested that Poirot might benefit from a bit of sleep. It was obvious that he didn’t want to leave, in fact I highly doubted he would ever let me out of his sight again. Fortunately, after a pointed look from the Chief Inspector, he got the message and left. Japp pulled out his notebook and waited for me to speak.

It was the hardest thing I had ever done. The conversation was long, mostly a repetition of what I had already told Poirot, just with a few more details that I hadn’t been able to tell him. I was terrified of what would happen afterwards, but I knew that keeping it all to myself would destroy me. Japp listened, scribbling away in his notebook. I was waiting for the moment when he decided I was a pathetic example of a man, but it never came. After talking what felt like hours, he left me to rest, promising to call in as soon as possible. I could tell he wasn’t entirely happy leaving me unsupervised, but in truth I was already feeling less inclined to hurl myself in front of a bus. I had barely closed my eyes when I felt someone at the side of my bed. Hoping they’d go away, I feigned sleep. I heard the feet of the chair scrape on the floor as it was pulled closer to me. Internally I sighed, and opened my eyes. “What are you doing here?”  
Miss Lemon smiled sadly. “I came to see how you are. Mr. Poirot told me a little about what’s happened. I was worried about you.”  
“You haven’t come to say ‘I told you so’?”  
She looked horrified. “Certainly not, why would you think that?”  
“I know you never liked Caroline, you never trusted her.”  
“That doesn’t mean I’m not terribly sorry about what’s happened. I can’t begin to imagine how awful it must have been for you.”  
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” My tone was sharper than she deserved. “Cowards don’t deserve sympathy.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and forced me to look at her. “Arthur Hastings, I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You are not a coward. I know that you’re ashamed of not being stronger, but you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are a good man, and nothing will ever change that. The only thing that could make you less of a man would be if you hit her back. That would make you a coward. And I know you would never do that. We’re your friends, nothing is ever going to change that. Now, I need you to promise me something.”  
“What?”  
She held my hands tight. Squeezing her eyes shut to stem the tears, she looked at me with an intensity I had never seen. “You have no idea how scared we all were. Our lives are better for having you in it. Life has been unkind to you, and I think I understand why you tried to do what you did. But don’t ever, ever, ever, do something so stupid ever again!” By now she was properly crying. In lieu of a better idea, I wrapped my arms round her. I beat down the impulse to escape, and I silently rejoiced at the personal victory. I’d forgotten how nice it felt to have any form of physical contact that didn’t result in pain. I slept better that night than I had for months.

When I awoke the next morning, sunlight streamed through the window. The door swung open and a nurse bustled in bearing breakfast. She tried to be extra cheerful, obviously she was aware of my suicide attempt. I was appreciative of her efforts, but it was starting to become a little wearing. On the other hand, the smell of toast and coffee was very welcome. I had begun to feel better as soon as I had admitted the truth, that and a good nights rest, and my appetite also seemed to be returning. All I wanted now was to go home. I could only pray that I didn’t get too long a prison sentence.

Poirot arrived just as I was finishing my coffee. He had brought me a change of clothes and persuaded the doctors that he would keep a strict eye on me, I was discharged. When we got outside, Japp was waiting with a car. The drive to Scotland Yard was silent and mercifully short. Poirot and I followed him through the labyrinthine corridors to his office. Still not speaking, he offered us a chair. I sat. The feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach was rising. I glanced at my friend. His face was a mask. Japp pushed a typed copy of my statement across the desk. I took it, and picked up a pen preparing to sign my life away. My heart was pounding as I passed it back to him. He tucked it inside a folder and stepped outside and spoke to someone. He was turned slightly away from me so I wasn’t able to see his face. But when his shoulders sank, so did my heart. I knew I shouldn’t have expected favouritism on his part, but I had secretly hoped that he would have some influence. He re-entered the room and took a bottle of whisky out of his desk drawer. He put a glass in front of me.  
“You can breathe now, Captain.”  
I dared to hope. “What do you mean?”  
“Not in the public interest, is the official decision.”  
“And the unofficial one?”  
Japp gave a short snort of laughter. “There’s no fooling you, is there. I’ve called in practically every favour I could. And I owe a few now. So you owe me now.” He turned deadly serious.  
“What can I do?”  
“Don’t ever do it again. Promise me.”

I faithfully gave him my word, and he escorted us down to the custody office. I accepted the official caution, this being the best Japp had been able to do for me. My belongings were returned to me, and we climbed into the taxi that had been arranged for us. We travelled home in silence. I stared out of the window. I could feel Poirot watching me with that keen eye that never misses a trick. I felt him watching me as we rode the lift upstairs. Inside the flat, I looked around at all the familiar things, almost as if I was seeing them anew. I sat on the sofa, and watched as he went about his normal business. At least as normally as he could while watching me out of one eye. The front door opened and Miss Lemon appeared, returning from lunch. I listened to the tapping of the typewriter keys.  
The sound was somehow comforting; that and the smell of pomade and tisane, reminded me so much of the good old days. How could I ever have run away from this? How could I leave such good friends? How could I have let my shame destroy my faith in their friendship? I wasn’t sure what the future would hold, I knew I had to do something about Caroline. I still cared a great deal for her, but I seriously doubted I could continue the marriage, not while she was drinking.

After a few days, in which I was not left alone for more than a few moments, Poirot went out on a case. He had refused my offer of help, which both pleased and irked me. I was beginning to feel cooped up, his constant watch over me made me think I knew how animals in the zoo must feel, being stared at for hours at a time. It was nice to have a little time to myself, although the thought of suddenly being alone was making me nervous. Feeling somewhat fidgety, I made myself some tea and settled down with the morning paper. An article on the forth page turned my blood to ice. WOMAN KILLED BY TAXI. Dashing to the bathroom, I lost what breakfast I had eaten. Vomiting turned to dry heaves and total panic. My head spun and all I could do was curl up on the floor. I don’t know how long I laid there but suddenly Poirot was there, with a cool flannel against my forehead, and helping me to sit up. I didn’t need to ask to know that he had seen the paper. He looked at me with such compassion, it made me want to cry.  
“She’s dead, Poirot.”  
He said nothing, but poured me a glass of brandy. I swallowed it, barely noticing as it burned my throat. The front door banged open. I noticed with passing surprise that Poirot was too concerned with me to complain about the possible damage to his wall. Obviously, Miss Lemon had also read the paper. She sat beside me, rubbing small comforting circles on my back.  
“This is all my fault. I never should have left her.”  
“Pas du tout. Not at all.”  
Miss Lemon squeezed my hand. “Don’t blame yourself, Captain. She got drunk and wandered into the road. I know it’s awful, but you didn’t make that happen.”  
“But if I’d stayed, if I’d helped her more…for God’s sake, she was my wife! She didn’t deserve that.”  
“And you didn’t deserve to be treated the way she treated you. I know you loved her, and losing a child must have been unimaginably awful, but she had no right to take it out on you. At least she’s at peace now, maybe she’s with your daughter.”  
I knew she meant to give me comfort, and I believed it did, if only a little. At least I would be spared the indignity of explaining to a court why I was divorcing the wife who had just lost a child. Almost immediately, I hated myself for my selfishness. I took myself off to bed, preparing myself for the onslaught of memories that permanently pervaded my unconscious. I felt that this night was going to be particularly awful. It was. I knew the noise would have woken my flatmate and when I dragged myself into the living room, he was already there.  
“I’m sorry I woke you.”  
“C’est rien. It matters little. This will pass, my friend. These nightmares, they will fade. Trust me. And until they do…” He shrugged. “What else are friends for?”

This became our almost-nightly ritual. I would wake up screaming, and meet Poirot in the living room, where tea would be waiting. I started accompanying him on cases again, life seemed to be getting back to normal. And then one day, his worst fears were confirmed. A crowd had gathered, pointing up at someone on the roof of a building. A young man was imploring his sister not to jump, to stand still, that help was coming. Ignoring Poirot’s attempts to pull me away, I took the stairs two at a time, the young man not far behind. I stopped a few feet away from the terrified woman, and gestured wildly at him to stay put. She looked over her shoulder directly at me.  
“Get back! If you come any nearer, I’ll jump.”  
It was a nine story building. I slowly took a couple of steps back.  
“Can I at least talk to you?”  
“What for?”  
“Because I don’t believe you want to do this.”  
“How the hell do you know?”  
I took a deep breath. Maybe this would help. “Because I’ve been where you are. I’ve stood on the edge, just like you. I thought there was nothing left, just like you. But it’s not true. There’s always something worth fighting for, even if you can’t see it. You have to let your friends show it to you.” I was slowly walking forward as I spoke, and finally I was close enough. I grabbed at her. She collapsed into my arms, sobbing. I gave her into the care of her brother and descended the stairs. Poirot was beaming with pride. That’s when I knew that I would be okay.


End file.
